…Of Captains and Mobster Poets…

Such should be a

class that could be

as a lab where

we might get up

to such business…

Nefarious.

Such should be a class

where the captain forced us to dark uncharted

waters. The soul shown as dark mirror that gives

deep seeded introspection; gives me vision.

Allows me to see that which I should not see,

mourning the loss of my child like romance.

Bound to rules that

when are learned well

are so easily cast off, now.

Shunned!

Banned from the pages that we dictate

as being the rod and rule. For now we have

come to the end when it has all been laid

onto pages milk white and lined dead blue.

The pen has now become the pun, a tool,

you see… Giv’n life by hands no longer trembling.

The word is now the picture, a frame of mind…

I will make no apologies for that which is

said, and what must be put to the paper.

The thoughts that have rattled around are so

near to escape, a sweet release. Far too

long have they been constrained; forced to live in…

inside the depths of my dimension. Now

soon, free to float without form or shape

that was given them by a sinister headmaster.

Words take wing; FLY! Give us your heavy downdraft

to buffet our brains with phrases unclear and meanings unknown…

Standing on our desks we cry loud, “O Captain!

My Captain!” A last honor as we slow march

out these frosted and stained wooden doors.

Oh Captain, My Captain…

…what a lesson we have been given.

(c) 2013 p.hill

Oblivious to Obvious

Porcelain china doll skin
shows bright under stark yellow
fly bloated light.

I reach to take your hand
unaware your fingers have broken off in mine.

A silent victim becomes ash,
the twinkle in your eye once so green
now a melting pool of candle wax.

Under the onslaught of flame
your delicate lace bra  strap
has fallen on your exposed shoulder.

Moving to fix it I fail to notice
the charred sackcloth once sundress.

Oblivious to smoke I see fresh mountain air;
a bountiful spread of vivacious hair
so eager to have fingers run through it,
now fallen away to soot.

An unnoticed television plays in the corner,
a sad box encasing flame.

What was once so good
shall always be now.

The glorious rays of paradise
bask me up and down,
reclining in the crematorium's coffin.

(c) 2013 p.hill

Toy Soldiers in Maple's Autumn

I would if I could tell you we died well
that in glorious fashion a charge we led
such that men might remember and tell stories
these things I would love to tell you about
but the truth is not simple
it never is

instead on a fall's cold day staring down
the impending onslaught of winter's embrace
an old man stooped in the last sad rays of muted sunlight
blood that once ran hot in his veins
now lies tacky, spilled on forested floors

a valiant knight once stood tall in his saddle,
white hair signifying an age but not condemning
him to the sentence of a number
his brave band of armed countrymen stand defiant, to the last
against the coming assault; a ragged fence

I would if I could tell you that he died well
but, in the summer's last light his life he gave
stood barrier between women and men, so proud and brave
however as the sun sank low in the western sky
with puncture wound drawn open, he led his charge, bled and fell

the knight we so bravely and so valiantly defended
stood tall in his saddle for the very last time
but even our brave Lord could not hold out
against the final insults of treacherous hands
placed in power by the same ones that stripped him bare

and we brave few held out as long as we dared
no matter time of day we kept our charge close
until bitter end when we too must give up this ghost
facing the long slow fall on brisk breeze's wings
back towards the earth from once we sprang

the piles of our fallen brethren
await collection by unknown hands
uncaring as they are piled into
heavy plastic bags in an attempt to
ferry us away

but my brothers do not go easily
and in one last act of defiance
destroy the bonds that attempt to hold them
scattered to the winds as prisoners set loose
their muted rustle marks passage of time
but they do not get far, poor lost squires

dead mingled with dead
vibrant colors drained to earthly brown
I would if I could tell you that we died well

(c) 2013 p.hill